by Ryan Schow
“I like it just fine if we’re in stock cars on a track,” he replied. “But we’re not.”
“If you’re worried about pedestrians,” she said, speeding up a little and dodging abandoned cars right and left and on the sidewalk, “then consider there’s a veritable beast of an engine operating here, and it isn’t quiet. Further consider, we’re moving through entire walls of two story homes packed so tight against each other you couldn’t squeeze a mouse fart through there, which is to say, the people four blocks down know we’re coming, and if they’re not smart enough to get out of the way, then they deserve to be run over.”
He huffed out a depleted laugh, an I-give-up laugh, a you’re-too-much laugh.
“What?”
“You know, you have one twisted sense of humor.”
“Who says I’m kidding?” she said with a smirk. He looked at her with hesitant eyes and an air of concern, to which she said, “I haven’t hit anyone yet.”
“You ran over a dead body earlier,” he said. “I could hear the limbs getting dragged up under the wheels.”
“Let me rephrase this for the literal crowd,” she replied. “I haven’t run over an alive body yet. Nor do I plan on it.”
The drove for what felt like forever before the edge of the park came into view. They were getting close, but it was slow going and there were people mulling about, as usual.
“Man, I thought this city had a homeless problem before…”
“These people have homes,” Indigo said. “It’s just they probably aren’t theirs and if they are they probably don’t want to be in them.”
When they got to the Safeway, the parking lot had some abandoned cars in them, but half the glass storefront was broken out from a car that jumped the curb and smashed through it. They parked the car, got out and looked the place over.
“Lock your door,” she said.
He did.
Walking inside, they found the place was indeed stripped clean. There were a few things here and there, and some sleeping bags with people in them and their stuff spread about.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“You don’t have to convince me,” he replied, following her back outside where a kid on a bike was waiting for them.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hey,” they said in unison.
He was a scrub of a thing, unwashed from the toxic rain storm the other day. He handed them a flyer.
“We’re having a community meeting tomorrow night,” he said, shoving a piece of paper at them with directions and a map drawn in crayon. In his hand was a thick stack of more flyers just like it. Whomever put these things together did quite a bit of work. “You’re from Balboa Hollow, right?” he said. The kid couldn’t be more than twelve years old.
“Yeah,” Rex lied, “right around the corner.”
“So show up then,” he replied.
When he rode off, Rex said, “I should’ve taken his bike.” He looked at Indigo for a response; she gave him pursed lips and a frown. “You could’ve shot him and then I could’ve taken the bike.”
She shook her head and said, “Let’s go, dork parade.” Inside the car, she said, “We need access to some backyards, but first we need to do some light recon.”
“What did you have in mind?”
She pulled to the side of the road on Cabrillo a few blocks down and said, “All these homes have backyards, easy access points. But first, we start knocking on doors, see who’s home. I’ll take one side, you take the other.”
“Sounds good,” he said.
They both got out of the car, both of them locking their doors behind them. She pointed to one side and he nodded, taking the other. He went up the street and found that only one of the residents answered the door. When she did, it was with a double-barrel shotgun to his face.
“I have kids, so if you’re thinking anything funny, take it somewhere else.”
Perhaps she was startled by his knocking. He’d knocked on each door the way cops knock on doors—like they’re about to kick them down and this was their first and last warning.
“No funny business ma’am. Just wanted to let you know there’s a community meeting for the Balboa Hollow residents tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where at?” she said, shotgun still in his face.
“Frank McCoppin Elementary. We don’t know how many to expect in terms of attendance, but you’re welcome to join us.”
“You set it up?”
“Do I look like the party planning type?” he asked, sarcastic.
A toddler with blonde pigtails and a stained pink and white outfit appeared behind the woman. The girl was cute, and smiling. When the woman saw him looking at her daughter, she turned and said, “Go back to your room.”
She put her eyes back on him and he said, “If I meant you harm, lady, you’d already be dead. Before you posture up and tell me I’m wrong, consider you just took your eyes off me with your weapon in reach. Meaning I would’ve taken it from you and beat you to death with it rather than waste whatever rounds you’ve got packed in the tubes.”
Startled by his forward approach, she backed up, kept the shotgun leveled on him and kicked the front door shut. The locks were thrown quickly, and just as he was leaving, she screamed, “Go away!”
He moved on from her house to the next. There were twenty-three homes on his side and though shotgun lady was the only one who answered the door, he heard movement in four other homes, which he noted.
He met Indigo on the other side of the block, which was Balboa. He said, “There are residents in homes eleven, fourteen, seventeen, eighteen and twenty. I could only get physical confirmation on house eleven though. She’s a middle aged woman with a dirty kid and a shotgun.”
“I counted twenty one on my side with four answers and two others I noted as possibilities.”
“Numbers?”
“One, seven, ten, twelve, fifteen and sixteen.”
“So we go back to Cabrillo,” he said. “There’s a fence we can jump, and we’ll hit the empty ones together.”
They returned to the Oldsmobile where she keyed open the trunk. Inside there was a cutout square of a moving blanket, a blue roll of two inch painters’ tape and a hammer. She gathered them up.
“You have your gun with you?” he asked her.
“Don’t pretend like you haven’t been staring at my butt,” she said. She was right. Her weapon was stuck in the back of her pants. A small caliber, ladies handgun. Black, a .22 if he was right.
“We going to go to that meeting?” he asked as they headed for the gray painted gate.
She lobbed the tape, the hammer and the blanket over the other side. Then she said, “Give me a boost,” and he did, trying not to look at her butt, even though he was.
“Get a good look?” she asked when she landed on the other side.
“Sure did,” he replied. “Thanks.”
A second later there was a massive noise, causing him to step back and check both sides of the street for witnesses. Fortunately the only people out were down the street a good block or two. Her next kick broke the lock. He opened the gate, snuck in and pulled it shut behind him.
“Very subtle,” he said.
“I’m sure someone’s calling the cops right now,” she said, strutting into the open backyard between the homes.
They jumped two fences on Indigo’s side of the street and used the cover of a large tree to block the views of prying eyes.
Inside they found what they were looking for, but not all the way. They hit two more homes without incident, gathered up the loot then hauled it back to the car. By the time they got back, both of them were breathing heavier, but the car was full with dry food and supplies.
“You’re good at this,” he said. The way she knew exactly where to look and how to clear a house showed him she was well versed in post-apocalyptic breaking and entering.
“We’re going to have to do this a few more times to get you guys situated.”
; “This is a good neighborhood,” he said.
“Yeah. Just remember that when you’re sitting in that school with the neighborhood watch.”
“I’ll try.”
“What do you think these people hope to accomplish having this meeting?” she asked as she was rolling down her window and taking them home.
“Maybe just taking stock of the human inventory,” he said. “Or maybe someone gets the concept of ‘strength in numbers.’ That’s going to be a thing sooner or later.”
By the time they arrived home, the mood between them seemed more settled, almost like they might be able to be friends or something. When they turned onto Dirt Alley and crept up on the house, they saw Macy and Cincinnati out back digging a hole.
“What’s that for?” Rex asked with the window down.
“A place to put our crap,” Macy said.
He looked at Indigo and said, “Well, on that note…”
Chapter Fifty
Dust and smoke caked the inside of Lenna Justus’s mouth. She regained consciousness in the middle of a hacking fit. Her throat was filthy, on fire. It brought her to. Everything was coming back now, not fast, but slowly, like the information itself was being dragged through a thick gel separating her brain from perfect awareness. Things were returning, though. Pieces of a puzzle she had yet to arrange, much less put together.
Then it hit her: a bomb went off outside. She remembered everything.
While the bottom of the second floor had collapsed into the first floor, the roof had collapsed into the second floor where she was at. Now she was trapped in the rubble of a place she could no longer call home.
Boards, dust, a rafter beam—it all sat on her, trapped her in a hole of her own making. She tried to move, found herself squirming in slow motion, but barely.
She wondered, how long have I been out? With the return of clarity came an immediate concern for her boys. Oh my God, the boys!
“Hagan,” she called out, her ragged voice sounding like hell. “Ballard!”
She dry swallowed hard, tasted dust and blood, called out for them again. It was dark. Too dark. And her voice wasn’t working. In that moment, Lenna’s calm began to crumble. First she wept, then she cried, then she sobbed as she thought of how far the world had fallen in these last weeks.
“Hagan!” she screamed, not caring if she tore a bloody seam in her esophagus. “Ballard!”
She called their names until each scream died a brutal death in the back of her throat and her voice was but a scratching whisper. Eventually she succumbed to exhaustion, her body giving up the fight.
“Mom?” the voice said, pulling her from nowhere into somewhere. Her eyes were swollen shut. So puffy it took a divine act just to crack them open. Slivers of light drove the pain home. Her eyes pulled shut in protest. Then she heard the voice again, further away this time. Somewhere in the house.
“Mom!”
Is that…Ballard?
Her mouth opened, a weak gasp of air escaping, the closest thing she had to a reply. She’d obliterated her voice last night. Without water, it would be of no use to her.
She tried to move. Couldn’t.
Sometime during the night, the debris settled, pinning her to more rubble. Beyond the stuffy air, the onslaught of body aches and terror, Lenna fought to keep her wits about her.
She told herself she wasn’t a woman in a bad situation; she was a mother who needed to look after her boys, no matter what.
Slowly, tightening her muscles, flexing her body against the crushing wreckage on top of her, Lenna began to move, to writhe, to pull and stretch things like her legs and hands.
Pinpricks of pain brightened her fingers and toes.
The rush of feeling sizzled up her arms and legs; she suffered an uncomfortable burn, a debilitating pain. Lenna fought her way through it.
She had to.
It had been a good half hour since she’d heard Ballard calling for her. She tested her voice, but it was impossibly dry, coated with debris from the dust clouds of the collapse. And her body...she felt drained, malnourished, dehydrated.
This is how people die, she told herself.
This is how you’ll die, Lenna.
She couldn’t help it—the doubt, the almost bitter resignation. She was trapped under the weight of a house she loved and she didn’t possess the strength necessary to escape it. Again, her body shut down, dragging her under, into the nightmares that ran nonstop in her head.
She woke to new sounds. To movement all around her. Her eyes were feeling more swollen than ever and stuck shut. The intense pressure crushing her chest and legs began to ease. Then it was gone. Hands slid into her armpits, gripping her, dragging her free.
“I think she’s still alive,” the voice said.
“She has to be,” Ballard replied.
“Mom, can you hear me?” Hagan asked.
Her oldest son sounded miles away. Like he was at the end of a long hallway full of corners. Like he was tucked into the shadows of shadows. Her body wanted to cooperate, but her mind was squashed delirium, her thoughts a swimming, syrupy tangle of worms and fireflies.
Is this delirium? Am I already dead?
The voices were louder, then quieter, and finally non-existent. Then something touched her lips, something cool and wet, and above all things, this worked to pull her out of the great abyss, toward the light, toward the living.
Her eyes creaked open and through the slits between her eyelids, spears of light burned her retinas, forcing her lids closed again.
She felt herself turn away, slowly, painfully.
“Just relax,” Ballard said, supporting her neck. “Try to drink the water.”
The water soothed her, broke some of the filth loose. She moved her lips, but even the tiniest adjustments split the skin. Blood seeped into her mouth, leaving behind a coppery tasting-stain on her tongue. She didn’t care. Her boys were alive and that’s what mattered most.
She never felt herself go, but she closed her eyes just enough to pass out completely.
Sometime later, a damp cloth was spread across her forehead, gently wiping away the debris covering her face. By this time she was able to take a spoonful of water into her throat, washing away the encrusted filth she couldn’t stop tasting.
She tried to talk. Couldn’t.
Tried to move.
Stopped.
Eventually she worked her eyes open and that’s when she saw him: Ballard.
“Mom, you need to eat,” her youngest said in his squeaky, puberty strained voice.
Ballard was the sensitive one. More like her than his father. In that moment, this was a welcomed trait, one that reminded her that not all of this new life was misery. That through the eternal darkness there was the possibility of light.
“Can’t,” she whispered, the word coming out hoarse, but audible.
“Hagan went for food.”
Her heart jolted, but her body was too depleted to show it.
“Dangerous,” she whispered, a cresting wave of panic rising within her.
“He took the rifle. He’ll be fine. We already scoped out the street. You killed both guys, although one of them is just...pieces. Hagan talked about eating them for dinner, but I told him you’d have none of it, so he went out hunting for something else.”
“That a joke?” she asked referring to eating the boys. Ballard shrugged his shoulders, like he wasn’t sure.
Whatever need she had to recover—to protect them, to provide for them—quickly sagged. She thought about their situation and was defeat. She was devastation. And Hagan? He was indeed his father’s son.
Now he’d taken the rifle and charged foolhardy into the unknown with no backup and a heart beating with the reckless desire to contribute, to defend, to kill, even at the expense of his own life.
Brave, stupid boy, she thought.
Chapter Fifty-One
Hagan’s body was all scrapes and cuts and bruises from getting through the house. He had the rif
le, but that didn’t make him safe, or dangerous. He had a hard time hunting rabbit with his father. He even refused to shoot at birds. He was his father’s son, but he wasn’t.
Then again, he wasn’t really that boy anymore. Not after his girlfriend…not after what he found…what had happened to her.
He was walking down Sacramento Street when sound cut through the air: an old motor, gasping and wound high, running hard but with just enough oil to keep it from burning out. He turned in time to see the open-top Jeep come bouncing around the corner at Locust and Sacramento, only half a block from him.
The old Jeep was pristine white about a hundred years ago and had three guys driving it. Music blared from a set of crappy speakers. Rap music. One guy was standing up in the back of the truck with a beer bottle and a pistol. He aimed it at Hagan and popped off two shots, both missing him but hitting a blue garbage can behind him and a tree trunk in front of him.
As the Jeep roared by the guys laughed, the one in the front seat flipping him the bird. Whatever fear he had working its way through him turned almost instantaneously to fury. It was guys like this who would rule the apocalypse.
He chambered a round in the 30.06 hunting rifle, sighted down the guy in the back seat, aimed for the beer bottle in his hand. Hagan slid his finger over the trigger, let out his breath then fired. The bottle broke. But only because it fell from the kid’s hand.
The hand he’d blown a hole in.
“Oh crap,” he muttered as the brake lights burned bright red and the Jeep came to a grating halt under locked-up wheels.
The guy was screaming and holding his hand up and pointing back at Hagan. The reverse lights came on and Hagan turned and booked it back to where he’d come from, sprinting to Locust Street. Left or right? His breath was coming fast and he was scared.
Crapping-his-pants scared.
He went right.
Hagan ran with all his might toward an enclosed, drop-down staircase. He hustled to the staircase, sweat pouring down his face, starting to soak the back of his shirt. He chambered another round, set the rifle up on the top stair, which was level with the sidewalk.
